CTE
by heisey
Summary: A possible future for Matt Murdock. In his fifties, after decades of blows to the head, he is suffering from chronic traumatic encephalopathy (CTE). Doubting his ability to function as Matt Murdock, Attorney at Law, and as Daredevil, he must find a way to move forward.
1. Chapter 1

_Chapter One_

_Matt_

Matt's cane tapped on the sidewalk as he walked away from the courthouse. Still shaken by what had just happened, he replayed it in his mind. Two months ago, he and Foggy had obtained a multi-million-dollar verdict against the bank that had defrauded their clients, forcing them into bankruptcy and homelessness. Predictably, the bank had filed a motion for new trial. The hearing on the motion was today.

After the bank's attorney presented his argument, it was Matt's turn. It happened about halfway through his argument. "The evidence was more than sufficient to establish the – " he was saying, when he couldn't find the next word. He searched his mind frantically, but it was, simply, gone. His mind was a blank. He knew he was in court, but for what case? And what was the hearing about? He couldn't remember. Trying to slow his racing heartbeat, he gripped the lectern, feeling totally lost.

Finally, the judge intervened. "Anything further, Mr. Murdock?" she asked.

Barely aware of what he was saying, Matt answered automatically, his years of courtroom experience kicking in. "Uh, no, Your Honor. We'll submit on our papers." He gathered his notes and returned to counsel table.

The judge turned to the bank's attorney. "Anything further, Mr. Wilenski?"

"No, Your Honor."

"The matter is submitted," the judge said. "I'll notify you of my ruling in due course." She stood and left the bench.

"You OK, Murdock?" Wilensky asked after the judge had departed.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," Matt answered with a wave of his hand. He picked up his papers and stuffed them in his briefcase, in no particular order, and hurried out of the courtroom.

By the time Matt reached the sidewalk outside the courthouse, he remembered why he was in court that morning. Jesus, he had really fucked up. He thanked God the clients weren't at the hearing. A married couple, both of them were working two jobs, trying to rebuild the life that had been destroyed when the bank defrauded them. Despite the win at trial, Matt knew it would likely be years before they saw a dime of the bank's money, unless the bank could be persuaded to make a realistic settlement offer. He had hoped that might happen if the court denied the motion for new trial. But after what happened in the courtroom, he wasn't sure how the judge would rule. He told himself this wasn't a motion that would be won or lost based on the oral arguments; the papers would decide it. And their papers, prepared by their associate (and future partner), Jasmine Espinoza, were good. As long as the judge read them, they should be OK.

As he walked along the sidewalk, he heard the hum of the (mostly) electric cars passing him. Not for the first time, he wondered how other blind people, lacking his heightened senses, were able to tell when one of them was approaching. His own senses seemed as sharp as ever, but he had noticed recently that he sometimes didn't process the information from them as quickly or as accurately as he used to. At other times, it was more difficult to stay focused. His cane came in handy at times like that. This was one of them.

He hailed a cab and got in, giving the driver the address of Nelson & Murdock. The firm still had its offices in Hell's Kitchen, but the neighborhood was no longer the Hell's Kitchen he and his law partner, Foggy Nelson, had grown up in. It wasn't even called "Hell's Kitchen" anymore. Its new, upwardly-mobile residents called it "Clinton." Matt reflected on the changes. Wilson Fisk had died of a massive heart attack five years ago, but his vision of a transformed Hell's Kitchen had prevailed. Gone were the abandoned warehouses and crumbling tenements, replaced by towers of steel and glass. He and Foggy had their office in one of them. There was still crime in Hell's Kitchen, but it was no longer the crime that took place at night, on the streets or in the alleys. Instead, it took place in board rooms, banks, and brokerage houses. This was the kind of crime that Nelson & Murdock now fought, using the weapons the law gave them.

There wasn't much need for Daredevil's kind of crime fighting in this new Hell's Kitchen, but when the need arose, he didn't hesitate to put on the devil suit. The media still reported on Daredevil sightings, but the stories now had a nostalgic tone. Still fit in his fifties, Matt kept himself in fighting shape, just in case. Maybe he'd lost a step or two; his right knee had never healed completely after he tore his ACL a few years ago. Nor had his back, after being injured in the collapse of Midland Circle. But he could still hold his own in a fight. He went to the gym regularly. Not Fogwell's – it was long gone, the building demolished to make way for expensive condos. These days, Matt went to a gym catering to other no-longer-young professionals trying to prevent, or reverse, middle-age spread.

The cab turned to the right and stopped. "This OK?" the driver asked.

"Uh, yeah, sure," Matt replied. He paid the fare, added a tip, and got out of the cab.

When he arrived at the 16th floor suite occupied by Nelson & Murdock, he went straight to his office and closed the door before sitting down at his desk. He rubbed his temples, trying to stave off the headache he felt coming on. As he did so, Foggy entered without knocking.

He skipped the preliminaries and got straight to the point. "I just got off the phone with a very worried Judge Danielsen," he said. "What happened?"

Matt sighed. Laura Danielsen was a law school classmate of theirs. Of course she would call Foggy. Shit. He waved his hand. "Nothing. I'm fine," he said.

"You know that doesn't work anymore, right?" Foggy told him. "I may not have super senses, but I know you. I know when you're lying." He pulled up a client chair and sat down.

Matt set his jaw stubbornly and leaned back in his chair, his arms folded across his chest.

"That's how you're playing this? Really?" Foggy frowned and rolled his eyes, not caring that Matt couldn't see him. "Stonewall all you want, buddy. You know I'll find out eventually. I always do."

"Honestly, Fog, I was just tired, that's all. What did Judge Danielsen say?"

"That you just stopped talking in the middle of your argument. And you looked 'totally lost' – her words, not mine."

"Yeah, well, I lost my train of thought for a minute," Matt admitted. "Like I said, I was tired, didn't sleep well last night."

"Whatever," Foggy muttered. "You gonna be OK for the settlement conference this afternoon?"

"That's this afternoon?" Matt asked. "Yeah, sure."

"OK," Foggy said doubtfully as he got to his feet and marched out of Matt's office.

_Foggy_

Back in his own office, Foggy considered this uninformative and, to be honest, infuriating conversation with Matt. It was only the latest in a lifetime of such conversations. Matt was like a brother to him, but damn, the guy did not make it easy to be his friend. Matt losing his train of thought in the middle of an important argument? It didn't happen. Not to Matt. And not in the courtroom. Matt was the most focused person he knew. He had to be. Besides, Laura Danielsen was no alarmist. If something happened in her courtroom that worried her enough to call him, it must have been serious.

It wasn't as if this was the first mental lapse he'd noticed recently. Just last week, Matt had forgotten the name of a new client, immediately after they were introduced, and it wasn't the first time he'd forgotten someone's name. He couldn't recall things like filing deadlines that should be second nature after years of practicing law. Once, he'd even forgotten his own bar number. There were also a few times when he'd looked uncertain moving about their office when no one else was there and he didn't need to act blind. But nothing had happened in the courtroom or, thank God, in front of a jury. Not until today. This was not good. Matt's reputation, and the reputation of the firm, were on the line. Not to mention the mental and physical well-being of his best friend. He had to do something, but what? He didn't know. He would talk to Marci. She could always see Matt with a clarity that often escaped him.

At the end of the day, Foggy took the subway to Brooklyn, going home to the Carroll Gardens brownstone he and Marci had bought after the birth of their twins, a girl and a boy, both now in college. He drank a beer as he waited for his wife to come home. Her days were often longer than his, now that she was the managing partner of the firm that she and three other lawyers had established after Jeri Hogarth succumbed to ALS, only a few years before the discovery of an effective treatment.

Marci picked up on his mood as soon as she walked in the door. "Why so worried, Foggy Bear?" she asked after she sat next to him on the couch and greeted him with a kiss.

"It's Matt."

Marci sighed. "Of course it is. It's always Matt. What is it now?"

"I'm worried about him."

"You're always worried about him," Marci pointed out.

"This is different," Foggy protested. "This is serious." Marci's expression grew increasingly somber as she listened to Foggy relate what happened in court that morning. "And that's not all," Foggy said, then went on to tell her about the mental lapses he'd observed. "Now that I think of it, it's been going on for months. I just didn't see the pattern, until now."

"You're right, it's serious," Marci agreed. "But, honestly, what did you expect?"

"What do you mean?" Foggy asked, shocked.

"He went out as Daredevil – and got beaten up – for years. Think about it – all those blows to the head, and most of the time, his only headgear was that ninja do-rag of his. It was only a matter of time before something like this happened."

"You're right," Foggy said grimly. "I should've seen it coming. But what can we do?"

"I don't know." Marci picked up her tablet and ran a search. After she absorbed the information on the screen, she said, "If it's what I'm thinking it is, there's not much we can do."

"Why, what do you think it is?"

"It's what football players get, you know, after getting hit in the head all the time. They call it CTE. And it says here – " She gestured with her tablet. " – that there's no cure. All they can do is try to prevent further damage and manage the symptoms."

"Damn." Foggy shook his head. He held out his hand. "Let me see." She gave him the tablet. He read, growing more horrified with every sentence. "Oh, God," he breathed when he had finished. "This is worse than I thought." He rubbed his forehead. "What do we do?" he asked helplessly.

"Support him, help him, if he'll let us," Marci replied. "That's all we can do. But we have to do it discreetly, so he doesn't get all prickly and defensive like he does."

Foggy nodded grimly. Marci was right. But he knew his friend. Matt would not handle this well. Tears filled his eyes. Matt had already had to deal with too much shit in his life, and now this. Maybe it was self-inflicted, but even so . . . .

Marci scooted closer to him and put her arms around him. "It'll be OK, Foggy Bear. I don't know how, but we'll find a way."

_Matt_

That same evening, Matt sat on the couch in his dark apartment. He'd been forced to move out of his loft apartment when the garish billboard across the street had finally gone dark, after years of protests and legal actions by nearby residents. When that happened, his rent became unaffordable. Fortunately, he still had months left on his lease. He needed all of them to find another place with suitable roof access – suitable for Daredevil, that is. He finally found one, in an older but well-maintained building on a mostly-residential street in Hell's Kitchen. It was only a few rooms, originally part of a larger apartment that had been subdivided into two. But a door in the kitchen opened onto a little-used back stairway that led to the roof.

Matt spent the evening, and much of the night, considering his predicament. His father wanted him to use his mind instead of his fists. Now his mind was betraying him, because he'd decided to use his fists, too. He knew what was happening to him. He'd seen it coming for a while. But now Foggy knew. Or he would figure it out soon, with Marci's help. And there were all of the people who were in the courtroom that morning. He'd avoided thinking about it for years, but he always knew this day would come. He always knew he'd have to pay the price for the punishment he took as Daredevil. Now he was paying it. He could no longer deny his new reality.

He reviewed his options. None of them was good. Foggy would have a plan. He always had a plan, Matt thought fondly. But there was no plan. Not for this. There was no treatment, no cure. It couldn't even be accurately diagnosed until after death. Matt remembered the football players who had taken their own lives and donated their brains for medical research. He couldn't beat this thing, but he wasn't ready to go there. Not yet. But that time might come.

For him, the verdict had been rendered. But he could still try to limit the damage to the people he cared about. Whatever plan Foggy came up with, it would jeopardize everything they'd worked so hard to build. Matt couldn't allow that. He knew what he had to do.

Matt was the first to arrive at the office the next morning. As soon as he heard Foggy's footsteps, he was on his feet, heading for Foggy's office. Before Foggy could even sit down, Matt slid a piece of paper across the desk.

"What's this?" Foggy asked.

"Read it."

Foggy sat behind his desk, then picked up the paper and read it. When he finished, he dropped it on the desktop and said, "No way. You are _not_ resigning from this firm."

"I just did."

"You can't. There is no Nelson & Murdock without Murdock."

Matt sat down in one of the client chairs. "You know what's happening, Fog," he said grimly. "There is no Murdock, not anymore."

"Look, we can handle this. There's gotta be a way – "

Matt shook his head. "There is no way. It's not gonna get any better. Make Jasmine a partner, she's earned it, and hire a new associate. I'm not gonna let you risk everything you've worked so hard for."

"Everything _we've_ worked so hard for, you mean," Foggy corrected him. "My name may be first on the door, but you're the face of this firm. You can't just walk away."

"I can, and I am."

"But we can figure out a way to make it work. You don't have to try cases any more. Jasmine and I can cover your court appearances. And you're right, we need to hire another associate anyway. We'll help you, support you, we all will . . . ." Foggy stopped himself. He was starting to babble.

"I know you mean well, Fog, but if I can't carry my weight around here, I don't want to be here."

"You can't mean that."

"I do. You're better off without me."

"You said that once before," Foggy reminded him. "It wasn't true then, and it isn't true now."

"I don't want your charity," Matt said. He stood up and strode out of the office.

"_Matt!" _Foggy called after him, but it was too late. Matt was gone.


	2. Chapter 2

_Chapter Two_

_Matt_

Matt didn't go home to his apartment when he left the office. His apartment was the first place Foggy would look for him, and he didn't want to be found. He went to the Clinton Church instead. Foggy would look for him there, too, but at least, Foggy wouldn't argue with him and make a scene if he found him there. Matt sat in one of the back pews, off to the side. Slumped down and with his head bowed, he hoped no one would notice him. But he still felt too exposed. Then an idea occurred to him. He crossed to the confessional and entered, pulling the curtain closed behind him. He knew the church's schedule. It would be several hours before Father Castro started hearing parishioners' confessions.

Maybe meditation would help. He tried to clear his mind, but when he did, his thoughts drifted to Karen. Oh, Karen . . . . She would have been all over this thing, chasing down every last scrap of information on his condition, until she was satisfied she knew everything there was to know. He smiled to himself, imagining her calling the offices of prominent doctors and researchers, badgering the staff until they caved in and allowed her to talk to the doctors themselves. He loved her for her fierce determination to find the truth, whatever the cost. It terrified him, too, sometimes. But she was a fighter who always got up, and never stayed down. Until she did. She was gone, murdered by Bullseye all those years ago. His grief rose up, as fresh and raw as the day it happened. And it was mixed with guilt, as it always was. It should have been him. He was Bullseye's target. Knowing what he knew now, her sacrifice was even harder to bear. She should be here, alive and whole, instead of this broken remnant of the man who had loved her.

The years since Karen's death hadn't dulled Matt's memories of her. Or so he always told himself. But now he wasn't so sure. When he imagined conversations with her, as he often did, was the voice he heard in his head really hers? He no longer knew. The memory of her scent was elusive, too. After she died, he refused to clear out her closet and drawers for months, until her scent faded and even he couldn't detect it. Only then did he donate her clothing to the church. But he still remembered her heartbeat, strong and steady, helping him to sleep on so many nights. And he remembered the joy of losing himself in his sensations, of losing himself in her, when they made love. Yes, he remembered _her_, the essence of her, even as the details faded. Then he froze, chilled by the thought that had just come to him. What if this thing took his memories of her, too? What if he lost her completely, and forever? He buried his face in his hands. "Please, God, _no, please_," he whispered.

Footsteps approached, followed by tapping on the side of the confessional. "Matthew?" a familiar voice asked. It was Sister Maggie, his mother.

_Maggie_

When Matt didn't answer her, she said, "I know you're in there."

"Go away," he growled.

"Not until you talk to me," she replied, in the "Sister Maggie" voice she knew he would remember from his childhood.

Matt pulled the curtain aside and sighed wearily. Looking defeated, he left the confessional and followed Maggie to her office. They sat at opposite ends of the battered sofa that had been there for as long as she could remember. Maggie looked over at her son and smiled. She'd thought him handsome when he arrived at St. Agnes, broken in body and spirit after surviving the collapse of Midland Circle, but she thought he was even more handsome now. The lines on his face were deeper, his features more sharply defined, and his hair and beard were liberally sprinkled with gray, but these changes only gave him a _gravitas_ he had lacked as a younger man.

She was proud of what Matthew had accomplished in his life. He and Foggy were among the most respected lawyers in the city, known for taking – and often winning – cases that other lawyers considered hopeless: the wrongfully convicted, languishing in prison with the legal deck stacked against them, or the victims of corporate greed, the disposable people who were chewed up and spat out by a system that was rigged against them.

Coexisting uncomfortably with the respected attorney was Matthew's violent alter ego, Daredevil. She couldn't deny the good he had done as Daredevil, but she was ambivalent about that part of his life nonetheless. To her continuing amazement, his secret identity was still secret after all these years, a tribute to the wilful blindness of the sighted. Matthew's business suits hid many of his injuries and scars, but not his split, bruised and calloused knuckles, his often-broken nose, and his frequent black eyes. If people noticed his injuries, they only saw the blind man; they assumed he'd fallen or collided with something. No one even considered the possibility a blind man could do what Daredevil did.

In her seventies, Maggie was still serving the children of Hell's Kitchen. The diocese had closed the St. Agnes orphanage nine years ago, finally acknowledging that an orphanage was obsolete in the twenty-first century. The children who were not adopted were placed with foster families and in small group homes. Maggie monitored their welfare closely; there would be no foster-care horror stories on _her_ watch. A few upstairs rooms at the former orphanage had been set aside as temporary refuges for kids caught up in abuse, violence, or family crises. The rest of the building was now home to an expanded pre-school, and to after-school programs for older children. Both were essential for the many children whose parents worked long hours, just to keep up with the ever-rising cost of living.

"Foggy called," Maggie began. "He told me what happened and sent me a couple of articles about what's going on with you. I'm so sorry, Matthew."

He waved his hand. "It's all God's plan, right?" he asked sarcastically.

Maggie shook her head. "Honestly, I don't know. I don't want to think God had a hand in this. It's so . . . cruel."

"Don't worry, He didn't," Matt told her. "I did this to myself."

"But not knowingly," Maggie pointed out.

"No. But I would've done it anyway."

Maggie nodded. "You helped a lot of people along the way. That must make it worth it."

"No," Matt said flatly.

"You don't believe that. You can't," Maggie protested.

"I do."

"But – " Maggie began.

Matt interrupted her. "Get real, Maggie. What did I accomplish, really? What did Daredevil accomplish?" He stood up and began walking back and forth, between the couch and her desk. "Sure, most of the gangs are gone. So are the human traffickers and gun dealers. Wilson Fisk is dead. But the criminals preying on Hell's Kitchen now are infinitely worse, and almost impossible to stop. They don't care who they hurt, as long as the price of their stock goes up, and their offshore accounts keep growing."

"I can't argue with that," Maggie agreed sadly. She saw the victims of their greed, indifference, and cruelty every day. Kids coming into the daycare hungry. Sick kids whose parents couldn't afford to take them to the doctor. Families thrown out on the street. All to pad some corporation's bottom line and further enrich its already-wealthy shareholders. "But you and Foggy have stopped some of them – with the law."

"Not really. Even a seven-figure verdict doesn't stop a multi-billion-dollar corporation. To them, it's just a cost of doing business. It may slow them down, but not for long. Then they go right back to doing what they were doing. The only way to stop them is to take out the people at the top – permanently."

"You can't mean that, Matthew," Maggie objected, horrified.

"Why not?" he asked. "I can always claim 'diminished capacity.' It will even be true," he said bitterly. He stopped pacing and sat down on the edge of her desk.

"If you let them turn you into a killer, it will destroy you. Then they _will _win."

Matt shrugged. "It's already happening. The 'destroyed' part."

"I'm not talking about your body or your mind. I'm talking about your soul. You wouldn't let Wilson Fisk destroy who you are. Don't let them do it, either," she pleaded. She stood up and went to sit on the desk next to him.

"I'll think about it," he said noncommittally, turning his face away from her.

"You do that," Maggie said tartly. She hesitated for a moment, then continued, tentatively, "After Foggy called, I got to thinking . . . I may know someone, someone who can, uh, help . . . ."

"You mean like a therapist?" Matt asked. "Therapy isn't going to help. Not with this."

"No," Maggie replied, "not a therapist. Just someone who knows something about what it's like."

"I'm not going to some support group and listen to a bunch of losers whining about this," Matt objected.

"Just shut up and listen, for once in your life," Maggie snapped. "It's not a therapist, it's not a support group. It's someone I know, someone I think can help."

"OK, I'll listen," Matt said grudgingly.

"Her name is Rebecca, Rebecca D'Amico. She used to be one of us, here at St. Agnes, but she left the order to get married."

"Like you did," Matt interrupted.

"Yes, like me," Maggie agreed crossly. "After she left us, she continued to work in child welfare, so we kept in touch. She's about your age, maybe a couple of years younger. She's a widow now. Her husband died two months ago. Early-onset Alzheimer's."

"Jesus," Matt whispered. "That must've been rough."

"It was," Maggie confirmed.

"But I don't have Alzheimer's."

"True." Maggie nodded. "But some of the symptoms, the problems, they're similar."

"Maybe. But she wasn't the one who was sick. How's she supposed to know what it's like?"

"She told me there was a time, before the disease . . . progressed, when Bob, her husband, knew what was happening to him. He was still able to talk to her about it. So, yes, she knows."

Matt stood up abruptly. "So what?" he asked. "I don't need anyone to tell me what it's like. I already know. And it's not like there's anything she can do. You know that. You talked to Foggy, you read the articles. What's the point?" He turned and started to walk away.

Maggie stood up and reached out to him. Her hand brushed his. "Matthew, please," she said. But he kept walking. She followed him. When she caught up with him, she pressed a piece of Braille paper into his hand. "Just take this, please," she pleaded. He closed his hand around it and stuffed it into his pocket without reading it. He walked out the door and down the hall toward the exit. With tears streaming down her face, she watched him go. Then she offered up a silent prayer for her son.

_Matt_

Late that afternoon, Matt ended up at O'Shaughnessey's, a bar on a Hell's Kitchen street that had not yet experienced the benefits of urban renewal. He'd never been there before, but with the peanut shells on the floor and the smells of spilled beer and long-ago (or maybe not so long-ago) cigarette smoke, the place felt like a real Hell's Kitchen bar. For a moment, he forgot where he was; he was back at Josie's, with Foggy and Karen. But Josie's was long gone, forced to close when a developer coveted its site for an office tower. Matt and Foggy refused to set foot in the upscale bar on the ground floor of the new building.

He stayed there for hours, sitting at the far end of the bar, sipping one Scotch after another. That was one thing in O'Shaughnessey's favor: the Scotch was better than anything Josie ever served. And the other customers, all of whom seemed to be serious drinkers, left him alone with his thoughts. There were plenty of them. He pondered what Maggie had said, about not destroying himself. Maybe she was right. Maybe not. If he had to sacrifice what was left of himself to prevent innocent people from becoming victims, that seemed like a reasonable trade-off. Matt Murdock was already being destroyed, every day, as his mind failed him. But his body wasn't failing him, not yet. He could still throw, and take, a punch. In the past, he had chosen to leave Matt Murdock behind. Not now. It wasn't a choice, this time. There was no Matt Murdock anymore. Only Daredevil remained.

That evening, Matt pulled his father's battered foot locker out of his closet. He opened it, lifted out the tray, and set it aside. He stood in front of the foot locker, contemplating its contents. Then, his decision made, he pulled out his devil suit, a new one that was all red (or so he had been told). He wanted people to know, without a doubt, that Daredevil was back. And the helmet would provide some head protection, not that it would do much good, now. Melvin Potter had made the suit for him, not long before Wilson Fisk manipulated the system to get himself released from prison for the last time. Melvin disappeared, along with Betsy Beatty, soon after Fisk's release. Matt hoped they were living under the radar in a city or town far from New York. But he feared the reality was grimmer: Fisk probably had them killed.

In the early morning hours, Matt was crouched on the roof of one of the few warehouses remaining in Hell's Kitchen. The light wind off the river was cool, with a hint of rain to come. With New York – the whole East Coast, in fact – in the grip of a six-year-long drought, any rain would be welcome, despite the flooding that inevitably followed the infrequent but increasingly severe storms. Even when the rains didn't come, parts of Lower Manhattan and Brooklyn were sometimes flooded at high tide. Hell's Kitchen had escaped the tidal flooding, for now, but the low-lying areas would be affected, sooner or later. It was only a matter of time.

The night had gone well, so far; he had stopped a would-be mugger and an attempted robbery at a bodega. Now raised voices, a man's and a woman's, drifted up to him. The woman was yelling, "Get your hands off me, you idiot!" Matt descended the fire escape and jumped the remaining distance to the ground, landing solidly on both feet. The man was gripping the woman's wrists, trying to pull her toward him and pleading with her to "C'mon, honey." He seemed unsteady on his feet. The woman was swearing at him and calling him an idiot as she tried to get away. Matt ran over to the couple and pulled the man away from her. He went down when Matt landed a single uppercut to the jaw.

Matt turned to the woman and asked, "Are you OK?"

Instead of thanking him, as he expected, the woman turned on him. "What the hell d'you think you're doin', man?" she demanded shrilly. "I wasn't in no danger, not from that idiot," she said, gesturing toward the man on the ground.

"Uh, just tryin' – " Matt started to respond, but she cut him off.

"He's an idiot, but he's _my_ idiot. I know how to handle him – better than you. I've been married to the guy for sixteen years. We don't need no do-gooder butting in where you're not wanted or needed. Get lost, asshole!" Having no answer to that, Matt jogged to the nearest fire escape and climbed to the building's roof, bewildered by the woman's response and his own misreading of the situation.

The next night was better. A father who had lost custody attempted to take his twelve-year-old daughter as she walked home with her mother after performing in a school play. Matt pulled the girl from her father's grasp and put him down with a flurry of punches to the midsection and head, then returned the girl to her grateful mother. Encouraged by that night's success, Matt went out as Daredevil every night that week.

Over the ensuing days, he fell into a routine of sorts: O'Shaughnessey's in the afternoons, Daredevil at night. Sometimes people were happy and grateful when Daredevil showed up. At other times, not so much. A few times, he'd raced toward what sounded like trouble, only to find a couple of loud drunks or a bunch of noisy kids. Nothing that needed Daredevil's attention. At other times, the cops arrived and handled the situation before he could get there. He'd heard that police response times had improved, ever since Captain Brett Mahoney took over at the 15th Precinct. Apparently it was true. Still, there were a few times when Matt thought Daredevil had actually helped: scaring away a group of teenaged boys with overactive hormones who were harassing a woman walking down the street alone; stopping the wanna-be gangbanger who thought he could impress the OGs by beating up a homeless man; and preventing a robbery at his favorite Thai restaurant.

People noticed that Daredevil was back, but not everyone was happy about it. Walking down the street, in line at the coffee shop, even at O'Shaughnessey's, he overheard comments:

"Who the hell does he think he is?"

"What does he think we pay the cops for?"

"It's not the Wild Wild West."

"We don't need vigilantes in Clinton."

But there were some people – not as many, maybe – who remembered the good he'd done and applauded his return. No matter what people thought, Matt was determined not to stop. It was satisfying, feeling that he was doing something, the only thing he could still do. It wasn't only the "helping people" part. He relished the feel and the sound of his fist connecting with a miscreant's jaw and putting him down on the ground, and the smell and taste of blood – his and his opponents' – in the air. He wasn't going to lie to himself; he had missed that. He didn't want to give it up.

True to form, Foggy wasn't leaving Matt alone. He'd lost count of the many calls he'd received from Foggy – and ignored. After the first couple of days, he stopped listening to Foggy's messages, most of which were of the "What the hell, Matt?" and "Don't be an idiot" variety. He deleted all of them. When Foggy went to his apartment, looking for him, Matt refused to answer the door. He knew how their conversation would go, and he wanted no part of it. It wouldn't change anything.

It was early Saturday morning, a week after Daredevil's return. It wasn't a typical Friday night in Hell's Kitchen; things had been relatively quiet. Matt climbed to the roof of an apartment building and sat down to catch his breath, leaning back against the low parapet wall with his legs stretched out in front of him. After a few minutes, he stood up and started to leave. He was halfway across the roof when he stopped short. Where was he? On a roof, somewhere. But where? Shit. He couldn't remember. Fear stabbed at his gut. "God damn it," he muttered under his breath. Breathe, he told himself, just breathe. No reason to panic.

He tried to remember what he'd been doing, just before he climbed to the roof. He'd heard – something – that sounded like something bad was happening. But by the time he got to the place where it was happening, the cops were already there, handling . . . whatever it was. So he left and ended up on this roof. Maybe. He thought that was what happened, but he wasn't sure. He went down to his knees. Prayer wasn't going to help, not with this. He needed to hear or smell or feel something that could identify his location, but he couldn't pick up anything specific. All he sensed was the city swirling around him.

Finally, after God-knows-how-long, he heard sirens converging on a nearby location, followed by the clacking of gurneys unfolding and rolling over uneven pavement, and paramedics reporting ("GSW to the leg," "BP 90 over 68," "sats 87," "intubated in the field," "GCS 3"). A hospital, some of the night's casualties arriving at the ER. Must be Metro-General. He took a deep breath. He knew where that was. And now he knew where he was. He made his way back to his apartment. But he was too shaken to sleep that night.

In the morning, Matt was getting ready to head out for some much-needed coffee when he noticed something in his jacket pocket. He pulled it out and examined it: a piece of Braille paper, slightly crumpled. He smoothed it out and ran his fingertips across the top line of raised dots: "Rebecca D'Amico." Who was she? Oh, right. She was Maggie's friend, the former nun Maggie thought could "help" him. Automatically, he started to crush the paper in his hands. Then he reconsidered. Maybe it wasn't such a bad idea, talking to someone who knew what was going on with him. What the hell, it couldn't hurt. He shrugged. It wasn't like he had anything better to do. He smoothed the paper again and read the phone number below the name, then pulled out his phone to call her.

That afternoon, he stepped off the elevator and made his way down the hall to Rebecca's tenth-floor apartment in one of the new buildings that had replaced many of Hell's Kitchen's tenements. The door opened as soon as he rang the bell. The woman who opened it was petite, with medium-length hair that he could hear just brushing her shoulders. He picked up a subtle scent of sandalwood and musk. Her voice was warm and welcoming. "You must be Mr. Murdock," she said.

"Matthew, please," he replied, holding out his hand. "And thank you for seeing me. I'm very sorry for your loss."

She shook his hand. Her hand was cool and dry, her grip firm. "Thank you. I'm Rebecca," she said. "Come in, please."

Matt folded his cane, then took her arm and allowed her to guide him to an armchair. "Coffee?" she asked. "Or maybe something stronger?"

"Coffee would be good."

"Please, make yourself comfortable. I'll be right back." Her footsteps left the room, apparently in the direction of the kitchen.

Matt sat down and took in his surroundings. The room was a generous size, by New York standards. It felt open and airy and was, he guessed, filled with light from the large windows he sensed along one wall. Footsteps approached, accompanied by the aroma of coffee. Rebecca set a mug down on the coffee table in front of him. "I'm assuming I don't have to tell you where this is," she said lightly.

"Thank you," Matt replied absently. Then he did a mental double-take, as the full significance of her words sank in. "You know?" he asked. "About me?"

"Yes," she confirmed. "We all know, those of us who were there, at the orphanage, when Father Lantom brought you there to recover. But don't worry, none of us would ever reveal your identity. Maggie swore us to secrecy. And you know Maggie."

"I do," he agreed with a half-smile. He sipped his coffee. It was good, hot and strong without being bitter. He took a second sip and set the mug down. Sitting on the sofa opposite him, Rebecca leaned forward to put down her own mug,

"How can I help you, Matthew?"

He shook his head. "I don't know. I thought you would tell me."

She sat silently for a minute, then said, "There was a time, before Bob's, my husband's, disease . . . progressed, when we both knew what was happening to him."

Matt sensed moisture and tasted salt in the air. Tears. Damn. This was a mistake. "I'm sorry," he said. He stood up hurriedly and picked up his cane. "I shouldn't have come. I'll go."

"No," she said firmly. "Please stay. I _want_ to talk about this. It makes me sad to remember that time, but only because of what we lost. You probably won't believe this, but it was the happiest time of our whole marriage."

Matt set his cane on the table and sat down again. "Please, go on," he said.

"As I said, we both knew what was happening, and we didn't know how much time we had left, until . . . until Bob wasn't Bob anymore." She sniffed. "We knew we couldn't stop it, so we found ways to live with it. We did it together, and it brought us closer together, closer than we'd ever been before." She picked up her coffee cup and drank. "I think some of the things we did might work for you, too."

Matt listened as Rebecca described how she and her husband had learned to compensate for his failing mind. He was already doing some of the things she mentioned, like meditation and exercise. Some of the others, like getting enough sleep and cutting back on the Scotch, not so much. He wondered if going out as Daredevil counted as exercise. He doubted it.

"One other thing," Rebecca continued, "you need to get checked out medically."

"I can't."

"But this might not be what you think it is. It could be something treatable."

"Not likely," Matt scoffed. "You know who I am, what I do. I've been doing it for years. What else could this thing be?"

"I don't know. But neither do you," Rebecca retorted. "That's the point."

"I can't," Matt repeated.

"Why not?"

"They – the doctors, that is – could find out . . . about me."

"Find out you're Daredevil?"

Matt considered this. "Maybe, maybe not. But they might find out about my abilities. I can't let that happen."

Rebecca sighed. "Maggie told me you were a stubborn s.o.b., but I had to see it for myself. I guess you really _are_ her son."

"That bad, huh?" Matt asked dryly.

Rebecca chuckled softly. She fell silent, apparently thinking. Then she spoke again. "When I talked to Maggie, she said you had resigned from your law firm."

"I did."

"You probably won't listen to me about this, either, but I think you should reconsider."

"Why is that?" Matt tilted his head toward her.

"It helps if you use your brain. Bob and I, we noticed, when he first got sick, that his good days were always the ones when he was mentally active – reading, doing crossword puzzles, things like that."

"Practicing law isn't like doing crossword puzzles," Matt replied scornfully. "We handle high-stakes litigation. There's no margin for error. We can't afford mistakes. If I lose it again in court, it could be a disaster for our clients. And for us."

"But you don't have to do it alone. Sit down with Mr. Nelson, talk to him, figure out what you can do, how you can make it work. Maggie told me he wants to. He's not the only one. There are people who care about you. Let us help you, Matthew."

"I don't know," Matt muttered doubtfully.

"I do," Rebecca replied firmly. "Look, Matthew, no one knows how your condition will play out, how much worse it may get, or even if it will get any worse. But I know what someone looks like when they go . . . well, when they go wherever it is that the disease takes them. You aren't anywhere close to that. And maybe, just maybe, you'll never get to that place. I hope you won't."

"So, what, that makes me one of the lucky ones?" Matt asked bitterly. Then he realized how that must have sounded. "I apologize," he said. "That was uncalled-for." He picked up his cane and stood to leave.

"Apology accepted," Rebecca replied stiffly. She stood and walked with him to the door. "But, please, Matthew, think about what I said. You aren't this disease, this condition. You still have yourself. You still have your life. You need to live it. I want to help you with that, if you'll let me."

"I'll think about it," he said shortly. "Good-bye, Rebecca – and thank you." He took her hand and held it, just for an instant, then walked away, down the hall. He didn't hear her door close until he stepped into the elevator.


	3. Chapter 3

_Chapter Three_

_Foggy_

It was a Monday afternoon, going on two weeks since Matt's resignation, or "alleged resignation," as Foggy preferred to think of it. Marci was the only person he'd told about it. Officially, Matt was "on vacation." When Foggy repeated this cover story to their associate attorney, Jasmine, she gave him a skeptical look. With good reason. In the five years she'd been working for Nelson & Murdock, Matt had never gone on vacation, or even talked about taking one. Thinking of Jasmine, Foggy felt a frisson of unease. If they were going to offer her a partnership – which they should do, and soon – there would have to be full disclosure. About Matt, about Daredevil, about CTE, about all of it. Foggy was not looking forward to that conversation. He only hoped they wouldn't lose Jasmine because of it.

Later that afternoon, Foggy took a break from deposition prep to read some new articles on CTE. When he finished the last of them, he put down his tablet with a sigh. As he looked back on his decades as Matt's friend, it all made sense: the depression, the anger, the aggression, the mood swings, the recklessness, the bad decisions. They were all _symptoms._ Even Daredevil might be a symptom. "Holy shit," he muttered. It had been going on for years, and all that time he thought it was just "Matt being Matt." Maybe CTE wasn't the only thing that made Matt who he was, but it played a part. A big one. Knowing what he knew now, he realized it had probably begun when Matt was a child being trained by Stick. Matt had never told him much about the details of his training, but Foggy had heard enough to know it was brutal. Another reason to curse that old man, no matter what Matt felt for him. Now Matt was starting to experience cognitive issues, the kind of problems the experts said showed up later. He shook his head sadly. His phone trilled.

"Franklin Nelson."

"Hey, Foggy, it's Pat – Pat McNamee." One of the former clients Foggy had enlisted to be on the lookout for Matt. "I spotted your guy."

"Where?"

"O'Shaugnessey's, on 48th, near 11th."

"Thanks, man," Foggy said. "I'm on my way. Don't let him leave."

"I won't," Pat assured him. "But he don't look like he's goin' anywhere."

Standing in the doorway at O'Shaughnessey's, Foggy spotted Matt sitting at the far end of the bar. He had just signaled the bartender to pour him another drink. She walked to his end of the bar and stood across from him.

"You sure, hon?" she asked. "Don't you think you've had enough?"

"Don't worry, I'm not driving," he quipped, giving her his best smile. It worked, as Foggy knew it would. She poured his refill, then left to answer the call of another drinker. Foggy crossed the room, nodding his thanks to Pat, and slid onto the bar stool next to Matt's.

"Hey, Fog."

Before Foggy could answer, the bartender appeared. He ordered a beer. When she brought it and was a safe distance away, near the other end of the bar, Foggy said, "We have to talk, Matt."

"Nothin' to say."

Foggy seethed. He started to tell Matt he'd had enough of his bullshit. Then it dawned on him that their location was too public for the conversation they needed to have. He scanned the room and found an empty corner booth, with no one nearby. That would do. "We can't talk here," he told Matt. He stood up and offered Matt his arm. Matt seemed determined to stay put at first, but then he relented and allowed Foggy to guide him to the booth.

Sitting across from Matt, Foggy studied his friend. Matt didn't look any more beat up than usual, but there was no way of knowing what injuries were hidden by his long-sleeved shirt. At least he wasn't actively bleeding, as far as Foggy could tell. _"What the hell are you doing, Matt?"_ he hissed.

"What I always do. Just tryin' to help people."

"Bullshit. I think you're angry, and confused, and scared, and you think beating up on people will make you feel better. News flash: it won't."

Matt leaned back and folded his arms across his chest. He clenched his jaw. Finally he said. "It's what I do. What I _can_ do. Can't do anything else anymore."

Foggy groaned in frustration. "You know you're only gonna make it worse, right?"

Matt shrugged. "So what? The damage is already done. It doesn't matter what I do."

"Yes, it does," Foggy insisted. "If you keep going out as – " He lowered his voice. " – as Daredevil, and keep getting beat up, you _will_ make it worse."

"Nah." Matt waved his hand. "The guys I run into out there, at night, they're a bunch of wusses, mostly drunk hedge fund guys. They're not fighters, can't even land a punch."

"But one of these nights, you're gonna run into someone who can." Foggy pointed out. Then an awful thought occurred to him. "Wait a minute. Do you _want_ to run into someone like that? Are you looking for someone who will do more damage, or worse? Is that what you want?"

Matt didn't answer in words, but the look on his face told Foggy all he needed to know. He was going to keep doing what he was doing, no matter what it cost him. Foggy wasn't going to win this argument, not today. He needed to come up with a different approach. He stood up and started to leave. "See you around, Matt." Then he turned and stepped back toward the booth. "By the way, the motion for new trial was denied."

"Motion for new trial?" Matt asked, with a blank expression on his face. Shit, Foggy thought, he doesn't remember. Then it seemed to register. "Oh, right. Good," he said indifferently.

Foggy walked out of the bar, his heart breaking for his friend. He had to find a way to get through to Matt. He didn't know how, but he had to.

At home that evening, Foggy grabbed a beer from the fridge and went to sit on the couch next to Marci. She looked up from the screen of her tablet.

"Can I interrupt you?" he asked.

"Please do. I'm working on the spreadsheet that tracks the associates' billable hours. I hate it. It's the worst part of my job."

"So there _is_ an upside to having a partner who doesn't care about billable hours," Foggy quipped.

"Is he? Still your partner, I mean," Marci asked.

Foggy nodded. "As far as I'm concerned, he is. But that's what I want to talk to you about."

Marci closed the spreadsheet and set her tablet on the coffee table, then looked a question at Foggy.

"I spoke to Matt today. One of our former clients spotted him in a Hell's Kitchen bar and called me."

"And – " Marci prompted. After Foggy told her about his conversation with Matt that afternoon, she shook her head sadly. "Not good."

"No, it isn't," Foggy agreed. "I mean, he's always been reckless, but this feels worse. He seems determined to do more damage to himself, maybe even get himself killed. I've only seen him like this once before, after Midland Circle. Somehow we – Karen and I – managed to bring him back, but I don't know if I can, this time."

"Oh, Foggy Bear," Marci murmured, stroking his hair.

"And that's not all," Foggy continued. "I realized today that what's happening with Matt now, it's been going on all his life. Everything I thought was just 'Matt being Matt,' it was a symptom of CTE – all of it. I should have known. I should have stopped him."

"This is _not_ your fault," Marci told him firmly. "The only way you could've stopped it was to stop him being Daredevil. That was never gonna happen. So lighten up on the guilt."

Foggy sighed. He knew she was right. Even the few times when Matt said he wanted to stop, he couldn't. "I know. But I still feel like I could've done _something_. And if he keeps going like he is, he really will get himself killed this time. Or at least speed up the process. I can't let that happen, but I don't know how to stop it."

Marci pulled him closer and put her arms around him. "You'll figure out something, Foggy Bear. You always do."

Three days later, Foggy was no closer to a solution. Simply hoping Matt would come to his senses wasn't going to cut it. He sighed and picked up the deposition transcript he'd been summarizing. He only got through one more page before his phone rang. Seeing "blocked number" on the screen, he tapped the "record" icon before answering.

"Franklin Nelson."

A distorted voice said, "We have Rebecca. If you want Murdock's girlfriend to live, drop the case against West Side Bank & Trust." The caller hung up before Foggy could say a word in response.

Foggy dropped his phone. Questions swirled in his mind. Matt had a girlfriend? Who was she? And now she'd been kidnapped, apparently. And it was connected to their case against the bank? What the hell? He picked up his phone to call Brett, then reconsidered. No. He had to talk to Matt first. No point in trying to call him; Matt would just ignore the call. He grabbed his jacket and hurried out the door, headed to O'Shaughnessey's. If he was lucky, Matt would be there.

His luck held. Matt was sitting in what was apparently his usual spot at the end of the bar, a glass of Scotch in front of him. "Hey, Matt," he said.

Matt didn't turn around to face him. "Go away," he said. "I don't – "

"Just shut up and listen," Foggy snapped, as he sat down next to Matt and took out his phone.

As Matt listened to the distorted voice, the color drained from his face. "Oh, God, _no_," he breathed. Then his expression changed to one of pure rage. _"God damn it."_ Foggy moved the glass of Scotch out of Matt's reach, before he could sweep it onto the floor.

"C'mon, buddy, we need to get back to the office _now,_" Foggy said. For once, Matt didn't protest. He settled his tab quickly, and they left the bar together. They walked the few blocks to Nelson & Murdock in grim silence. Once there, Foggy headed straight for his office. He stopped when he noticed Matt was no longer following him. Matt had paused in front of the photo of Karen that hung on the wall of the reception room. It was a simple portrait, taken for the firm's first web site. The caption below it read, "Karen Page," followed by the dates of her birth and death, in print and in Braille. Matt ran his fingers over the raised dots before following Foggy into his partner's corner office.

The two men sat across from each other at Foggy's work table, which was covered with files and documents from the case against the bank. "So who is this Rebecca?" Foggy asked. "And why am I just now hearing about her? I gotta hand it to you, Murdock, finding yourself a new girlfriend when we all thought you were having an existential crisis."

"Not funny," Matt snapped. "And she's not my girlfriend. She's a friend of Maggie's. We've met for coffee a few times. She's helping me with my . . . problem."

"Oh." Not knowing what else to say, Foggy dropped the subject. "So the bank's gotta be behind this, right?"

Matt nodded. "Yeah. I was thinking about it, on the way over here. You said the motion for new trial was denied." Foggy nodded. "So normally, you'd expect them to appeal. But they can't, not in this case. It's not only about this case. If they appeal, and we win on appeal, which we will, it will set a precedent. It will open the door for God-knows-how-many more cases against them, based on our legal theory. The big national class-action firms might even get involved. They can't let that happen. They have to be desperate."

"Makes sense," Foggy agreed. "But they could accomplish the same thing by settling the case. Why not settle?"

"That would be the smart move," Matt said. "But you know what these people are like. It's all about the money. If they want to settle this case, they're gonna have to pay – a lot. They know we're not gonna take a low-ball offer. If they can get what they want without paying our clients a dime, so much the better."

Foggy couldn't help noticing that there was nothing wrong with Matt's mind at the moment. But now was not the time for that conversation. They needed to stay focused and come up with a plan. "Sons of bitches," he muttered. "So someone at the bank has to be behind this, right?"

"Yeah." Matt stood up and walked over to the window. He turned around and faced Foggy, then said, "I mean, the guys at the bank probably didn't pull off the kidnapping themselves. They would've hired some muscle to do it. But they have to be the ones calling the shots."

Foggy picked up his tablet and found the witness list from the trial. "If we're right, they'll be on this," he said, holding up the tablet.

"What's that?" Matt asked.

"The witness list from the trial."

"Good thinking." Matt came back to the table and sat down across from Foggy. They went down the list, discussing each witness from the bank, until they reached "Paul Weston, Senior Vice President."

"I remember that guy," Foggy said. "He was a real dick at his depo."

"Yeah," Matt agreed. "He cleaned up his act at trial, more or less, but the jury still hated him."

"And he was in a perfect position to orchestrate the fraud. I always thought he was the guy behind it."

"Me, too. And that means he's the one with the most to lose if this case doesn't go away. Time to have a little talk with Mr. Weston, I think." Matt stood up and started toward the door.

"Matt! Wait!" Foggy called out. Matt stopped and turned back toward him. "What are you going to do?"

"Find out where they have Rebecca, and get her out of there."

"You mean Daredevil's going to."

"Yes."

"We need to think this through," Foggy protested. "Maybe there's some other way."

"There isn't," Matt declared flatly. "We can't waste time dicking around with the cops or trying to string the kidnappers along. The longer they have Rebecca, the more danger she's in. And she's in danger because of me, because she tried to help me. This is the only way. I have to do this."

Foggy hated to admit it, but Matt was right. And he knew from long experience that it was futile to argue with Matt when he was like this. "OK," he said resignedly. "But let me help." He started shuffling through the papers on the table.

"What're you doing?" Matt asked.

"Thinking it might help if you knew where you were going – to find Weston, I mean. As I recall, we served his trial subpoena on him at his house." Foggy went through more papers, then held one up. "Got it!" he exclaimed. He recited an address on the Upper East Side.

"Thanks, man. I'll call you when Rebecca's safe, so you can call Brett," Matt said as he walked quickly out the door.

_Matt_

Back at his apartment, Matt changed quickly into his all-black Daredevil gear. This job called for stealth and concealment. He didn't need to make a statement with the red suit. Over the black outfit he wore a light jacket. His mask and burner phone were in the pockets, along with his pocket knife and a set of lock picks given to him by Jessica Jones, years ago. He put on a baseball cap and dark glasses and picked up his cane. He decided to take the subway to the East Side. The subway was faster than a cab or a ride-sharing service, especially now, during the evening rush hour. More importantly, it was anonymous. Adopting his "just an average blind guy" persona, he closed the door to his apartment and descended the stairs.

While he was on the subway, he listened to an excerpt from the soundtrack of Weston's video deposition. Foggy had sent it to him with a message: "In case you need a reminder of what the asshole sounds like." There was another message from Foggy, too, with a detailed description of the location of Weston's townhouse on East 82nd Street, between First and Second Avenues: "North side of the street, 6th house east of Second." When he was confident he would recognize Weston's voice, he stopped the recording. Then he returned to the question that had been puzzling him ever since he heard the distorted voice on Foggy's phone: how did they know about Rebecca? The answer finally came to him. The bank's henchmen must have been watching him, and they spotted Rebecca when he met her for coffee yesterday. If they could tail you that easily, you really are losing it, he told himself grimly.

Matt got off the train at 86th Street and walked down Second Avenue. He abandoned his "blind guy" persona when he left the subway, stuffing his folded cane and dark glasses into his pockets. Now he was just another pedestrian on a New York sidewalk. He turned on to 82nd Street and located Weston's townhouse. Like other houses of its type, it had a flight of stairs going up to the front door. Under the stairs, hidden from the street, was an areaway with a ground-floor entrance. Once he was sure the street was clear, Matt slipped into the areaway. There he pulled out his lock picks and went to work on the two locks securing the door. They yielded quickly, and he went inside. He put on his mask and left his jacket and baseball cap just inside the door. A short hallway led to the main room on the ground floor. It appeared to be a rec room, with a bar along one wall and a large, multi-section couch along the opposite wall. A pool table occupied the center of the room.

Matt explored the house with his senses. He could detect only one person in the building. With any luck, it would be Weston.

A laundry/utility room opened off the main room. Matt went in and located the breaker box on the wall, next to the washer and dryer. He opened it and tripped the breakers. Now he only had to wait for Weston to appear. He stood in front of the breaker box, blocking it. Within a few minutes, he heard footsteps on the stairs, accompanied by muttered curses. It was Weston; Matt recognized his voice from the soundtrack. When Weston stepped into the room, Matt attacked. With the dual advantages of surprise and darkness, he had Weston up against the wall before the man could fight back. Matt held him in place with his right arm pressed against Weston's neck. Matt's left hand grasped Weston's right hand. He twisted Weston's hand just enough to be painful, without causing any real damage.

"You right-handed, Paul?"

Weston gasped out a "yes" in reply.

"You wanna be right-handed tomorrow?"

"What? Who – ?"

"Answer the question," Matt ordered in his lowest, most menacing voice.

"Yes," Weston gasped again.

"Where is Rebecca D'Amico?"

"Who? I don't know – "

"Wrong answer, Lefty." Matt twisted and crushed Weston's hand, until he heard the satisfying crunch of small bones breaking. Weston shrieked in pain and sank to his knees.

"You wanna try that again? You still have one good hand."

"No, no," Weston sobbed. "Please don't hurt me."

"_Where is Rebecca?" _Matt roared.

"A tenement, vacant, 52nd and 9th. Fifth floor," Weston croaked.

"How many?"

"Wha – "

"How many men are with her?"

"Two, maybe, three."

"Armed?"

"Yeah."

Matt unleashed a volley of punches to Weston's head and left him lying on the floor, bloody and unconscious. "Piece of shit," he muttered under his breath as he kicked Weston in the ribs and walked away. He picked up his jacket and baseball cap on the way out of the house. This time, he put on his dark glasses and unfolded his cane. Passers-by would only see a blind guy walking away from the house on 82nd Street.

His anxiety ratcheting up with every passing minute, Matt took the subway back across town. He had to hope Weston would be out long enough for him to reach Rebecca before the banker could alert his accomplices. He didn't want to think about what might happen if he didn't get there in time. Too many people had died because of him: Karen, Elektra, all the others. Rebecca was not going to be one of them, not if he could help it. Then it struck him: he'd made a mistake. He should have tied up the banker, done something to make sure he was unable to contact the kidnappers. "God damn idiot," he swore under his breath, his stomach churning. When he got off the train at 57th Street, he had to force himself not to sprint out of the station.

Abandoning his "blind guy" cover once again, he made his way to the building at 52nd and 9th as quickly as he dared. When he was sure the street was clear, he scaled the chain-link fence around the building. Once inside the fence, he took off his jacket and baseball cap and put on his mask, before he climbed the fire escape. He stopped at the fifth floor, outside a broken window, and scanned the interior. He heard the heartbeats of four individuals, three of them close together. The fourth must be Rebecca's. It was slower than the other three. They must have drugged her. The other three heartbeats were between him and her. There was no way to get to her without being seen. The three thugs' heartbeats said they were relaxed, even bored. That meant Weston hadn't alerted them. Good. A faint hum told him the building still had electricity. So the lights were probably on. Not good, but he couldn't afford to take the time to find the electrical room and shut off the power. Weston could regain consciousness at any moment.

Matt knocked the remaining shards of glass out of the window and lowered himself through the opening. The three men gave no sign they'd heard the tinkling of the broken glass. He took a deep breath. Yelling wordlessly, he sprinted toward the thugs in a head-on assault. He managed to take out one of them almost immediately, with a leaping kick to the head that shattered the man's cheekbone, and maybe others, from the sound of it.

The other two would not be dispatched so easily. Both pulled out their guns and began firing. Matt dodged the bullets, taking shelter behind a wall. He crept along the wall toward an opening he sensed at the far end, hoping to come up behind them and take them by surprise. By the time he sensed their location, it was too late. They were waiting for him. He leaped out from behind the wall, landing a series of punches to the head and body of the man nearest him. A chopping blow to the wrist separated the man from his gun. It clattered to the floor, and Matt kicked it away, across the room. The man staggered under the blows but didn't go down.

The second thug approached Matt from behind. Matt flung out an elbow to intercept him. That slowed him and made him drop his gun, but he kept coming. He landed a series of blows, connecting solidly with Matt's head. His ears ringing, Matt stepped back, holding his head. He took a few deep breaths and shook his head to clear it. Then he leaped and twisted, kicking the man solidly in the rib cage. The second thug went down, but so did Matt. His right knee buckled under him as he landed. He lost his balance and hit the floor hard. He pulled himself to his feet and kicked the second thug in the ribs and the head. The man stayed down.

Only the first thug was left, but he was now firmly back on his feet and heading across the room, toward his gun. Matt raced to intercept him, but he was too late. The man picked up the gun and aimed it at Matt. By this time, Matt was close enough to grab the man's wrist as he fired. The round went harmlessly into the ceiling. The thug raised the gun again and used it to strike a glancing blow across Matt's temple. Suddenly dizzy, Matt almost went down. He grimaced and raised his fists, uncertain exactly where his opponent was. Some of his punches connected with the man's head, but his opponent was landing two blows for every one of his. Finally, Matt was able to grab both of the man's arms. The two men grappled. Summoning all of his remaining strength, Matt pushed the thug across the room and out the broken window. His head hit the railing of the fire escape, and he crumpled onto the landing, unconscious.

Breathing heavily, Matt stood with his head down, his hands on his knees. As soon as he caught his breath, he made his way to Rebecca. She was bound to a chair with zip ties. He pulled out his pocket knife and freed her. She was semi-conscious but seemed to recognize him. "Matthew," she breathed.

He put his arms around her. "I'm here. You're safe." Then he pulled out his burner phone to call Foggy. He stayed with Rebecca until Brett Mahoney arrived.

_Foggy_

When Foggy showed up at his apartment the next afternoon, Matt answered the door, for a change. "Hey, Fog," he said, stepping back to admit him.

"Hey," Foggy replied. He followed Matt to the living room and sat down on the couch.

"You want a beer? Coffee?" Matt asked.

"No, thanks."

Matt went into the kitchen and returned with a bottle of beer. He sat on an armchair across from the couch. "Let me know if you change your mind," he said, taking a drink. He set the bottle down on the coffee table, then asked, "How're you doing?"

"OK." Foggy yawned. "A little tired. It was a long night at the precinct with Brett."

"I'll bet. How'd it go?"

"One of the thugs who took Rebecca flipped and gave up Weston. The other two followed suit. They'll all be going away for a long time, especially Weston."

Matt nodded. "Good." He picked up the bottle of beer and drank.

"You know, I saw Weston when they brought him to the precinct, after the docs worked on his hand. What the hell did you do to him?"

"What I needed to do."

Foggy considered this for a moment, then decided to change the subject. "How's Rebecca?"

"Recovering. They kept her at the hospital overnight, until the drugs were mostly out of her system. I wanted her to come back here, where I could keep her safe, but she insisted on going home."

"How about you? You OK?"

"Yeah. I mean, I got my bell rung a little bit by one of the guys who took Rebecca. Nothing that hasn't happened before. Obviously." Matt shrugged. "I'll live."

Foggy saw the opening and took it. "Exactly. And about that – ," he began.

He only got that far before Matt interrupted him. "Don't go there," he warned.

"Just hear me out," Foggy said. "Then, if you still want to give up and walk away from your life, I won't try to stop you." That was a lie. If he was lucky and Matt wasn't listening, maybe his heartbeats wouldn't give him away. He got to his feet and walked over to the window. He stood there for a moment, looking out and thinking. Then he looked over at Matt. "Remember yesterday afternoon, at the office?"

Matt nodded. "Yeah," he said guardedly.

"Your analysis was right on the money. You knew exactly why the bank couldn't risk an appeal and why they were so desperate. Did you hear yourself? I heard you. I heard Matt Murdock, the guy I've been practicing law with for more than twenty years. The firm needs him. _I_ need him."

"Maybe," Matt admitted. "But it comes and goes, you know that. If I lose it in court again . . . ." His voice trailed off. He rubbed his forehead absently.

"We'll make sure that doesn't happen. So you won't try cases from now on. You won't need to. Jasmine is ready, she can step up. But I'll still need you next to me at counsel table."

Matt stopped rubbing his forehead and turned toward Foggy, his eyebrows raised quizzically.

"Who else is gonna tell me when people are lying?" Foggy asked.

Matt gave a tight half-smile. "At least I'm still good for _something_," he muttered bitterly.

"That's not all, Matt, and you know it," Foggy protested. "Don't forget, you're our rainmaker. Where would we be without you to bring in new clients?" He went back to the couch and sat down.

"Yeah, as long as I don't forget their names," Matt shot back. He drank the last of his beer and set the bottle down on the table. "What about Daredevil?" he asked.

Taken aback, Foggy hesitated. He wasn't planning to mention Daredevil. That was a battle he'd fought, and lost, years ago. Finally, he said, "Look, you know how I feel about that. And now, well, I don't want to see you taking any more hits, making things worse. But I know you probably can't stop, even if you say you want to. So I guess all I'm gonna say is just . . . be careful, man."

"I dunno," Matt said doubtfully. "People didn't seem all that happy that Daredevil is back, so . . . ."

"If you decide to hang up the suit, I'll support you, you know that. And earlier, when you said, 'I'll live,' that's what I want you to do. You may not believe it now, but you still have a life. You need to live it, for as long as you can."

"Have you been talking to Rebecca?"

"No," Foggy said, surprised.

"That sounds like what she told me, the first time we talked."

"Then she must be a very wise woman."

"She is." Matt sighed. "I'll think about this – what you said, and what she said."

"Good. I should go. You look tired." Foggy got to his feet and started to walk out of the room.

Matt nodded as he stood up to walk Foggy to the door. Before he left, Foggy said, "Get some rest, OK?"

"I will. And thanks, buddy."

_Matt_

Matt closed the door as the sound of Foggy's footsteps faded down the stairs. He went back to the living room and stretched out on the couch. He had a lot to think about. Maybe Foggy was right. Rebecca, too. Maybe he could still have a life, some kind of life. He didn't know what that would look like. He was facing an uncertain future. But the future had always been uncertain. Especially for him. Ever since he became Daredevil, his life had been a high-wire act, precariously balanced one misstep from disaster. He already knew that nothing was certain in this life. That hadn't changed.

What was it Rebecca had said? "There are people who care about you. Let us help you." Automatically, he dismissed the idea of accepting help. He didn't want or need anyone's pity. But if he was honest with himself, he had to admit it wasn't pity that motivated them. Not Foggy. Or Maggie. Or even Rebecca. Calling it pity was just a convenient excuse to push away the people who cared about him. Maybe he wouldn't push them away. Not this time. His mind drifted back to a conversation he had with Maggie at another time in his life when he had lost his way. In his despair, he'd believed his life wasn't worth living if he couldn't follow his calling. Maggie had challenged that belief. He now understood what she was trying to tell him, all those years ago.


End file.
